


Whiskey-Flavored Embouchure

by jonius_belonius (Joni_Beloni)



Category: Suits (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Bank Teller Mike, Drama & Romance, First Time, Jazz Age, M/M, Musician Harvey, Prohibition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 14:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20341468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joni_Beloni/pseuds/jonius_belonius
Summary: It’s the age of jazz and prohibition, gangsters and speakeasies. Mike is trumpet player Harvey Specter’s biggest fan. One night in Harlem, he gets to meet his idol, and his life will never be the same.





	Whiskey-Flavored Embouchure

**New York City, 1928**

Harvey Specter was playing again tonight at the _Willow Wisp_. Nobody played the trumpet like he did. Mike had saved up all month for this, plus he knew the doorman at the _Wisp_, who would waive the normal fifty-cent entry fee. Canadian whiskey and hot jazz were just the prescription to wash away the bad taste of another deadly dull week at the bank, and help him forget the ugly way the week had ended.

He’d run afoul of his manager, Louis Litt, yet again, and he’d be lucky if he still had a job there on Monday morning. Louis was such a ridiculous stickler about … well, everything, really. He delighted in making all the clerks squirm and jump to attention when he emerged from his office to stalk the teller cages, looking for the slightest irregularity. Mike had been unlucky enough to be caught engrossed in his copy of _The Herald_, and hadn’t heard Louis’ stealthy approach until he was right behind him, and ripping the newspaper from his hands.

Louis had ordered him into his office for a twenty-minute lecture and announced that he would give him the verdict Monday on his future at the bank. Mike couldn’t find it in him to care. The economy was booming, and jobs were easy to find. Louis might not provide him with a reference, but Mike had plenty of pals at the bank who’d be more than happy to send off a glowing account of him on pilfered bank letterhead.

At home in his tiny fourth-floor walkup, he stripped off his heavy wool suit and confining collar, and did a quick wash and shave before liberally splashing rosewater on his neck and chest. He laid out his duds for tonight, light brown trousers, a matching vest with black satin back, white shirt, and the two-tone brown and ivory shoes he didn’t dare wear to work.

Blithely dismissing thoughts of his possible impending poverty, he decided to treat himself to dinner at the neighborhood steakhouse. Their ribeye and fried potatoes had never tasted so good as they did tonight. A frosty beer would have gone nicely with the meal, but that had been illegal for more than eight years. He’d make up for it at the _Willow Wisp_.

He caught a ride on the streetcar for the trip to Harlem. It was a fine, warm evening in June. The muggy, sweltering days and nights of July and August seemed far in the future. For now, the air cooled quick enough as the sun went down. Stars shone in the dark sky. Not even the streetlights could dim those distant pricks of light.

He was whistling a syncopated melody (off key) as he made his way down the alley to the back door of the _Willow Wis_p. He tapped on the heavy door – once, twice, and then four quick, harder raps – and a square peephole opened to reveal the face of his friend, Trevor.

Trevor grinned at him through the opening. “Something told me I’d see you tonight. Or should I say, someone.”

Mike huffed and glanced furtively around the alley to either side of him. “Would you just let me in already?”

“Don’t be so jumpy,” said Trevor. “The cops are paid well enough to lay off.” He opened the door, though, and Mike slipped inside.

“Did you reserve me the table up front?”

“Did you bribe me?” Trevor shot back.

“Trevor,” he whined, “how long have you known me?”

“Long enough to know that you’ll take advantage of our acquaintance every chance you get.”

Now, that was unfair. Hadn’t Mike always given Trevor whatever he wanted? “You do the same where I’m concerned, and we both know I’ve suffered more for it than you have.”

Trevor might have continued the argument, which was an old and worn out one, but other customers were arriving and he had to return to his post at the door, allowing the members inside, and weeding out those who didn’t belong, or who looked like trouble.

Mike made his way into the main room of the club, which was dimly lit, thick with cigarette and cigar smoke, and filled with the laughter and shouts of those who, like him, were here to shake off the stresses of the week and kick up their heels.

While he stood at the bar, waiting for his bottle of whiskey, he surveyed the room. The table he’d desired, directly in front of the stage, was already occupied. He recognized the club’s owner, Travis Tanner, looking like the gangster he was reputed to be, in a flashy black and white pinstripe suit, black shirt, and white tie, with what appeared to be a diamond stickpin. He was accompanied by a couple of fast young women who Mike assumed were dancers from one of the current Broadway revues, as well as the hottest singer of the season, Jessica Pearson.

With bottle and shot glass in hand, he moved through the crowd until he found a small table at the side of the room which, while not close enough for serious ogling of his crush, still provided an excellent line of sight to the stage, and would give him an adequate view of all the musicians.

The house band was already playing, tootling out some jaunty, clarinet-heavy dance number. A few couples had braved the dance floor, some trying the newest dance known as the lindy hop, which seemed to have arms and legs flying in every direction, and some sticking with the Charleston or the even more staid Foxtrot.

Mike had two left feet, and wouldn’t be caught dead on a dance floor. He enjoyed watching, though, and tapped his foot along to the addictive music. While he listened, he closely examined and evaluated the fashions of the dancers.

It was impossible not to admire the stylish flappers in their drop-waist silk dresses. Their handkerchief hems flared like bells when their partners spun them in a circle, or fluttered dangerously up their legs when they were tossed in the air, exposing smooth thighs, rouged knees, and garter belts. Some of the dresses had beaded fringe hems that rippled and shimmied like the slinkiest of chain mail. Satin shoes with high, clunky heels were made for dancing. Faces were powdered to flawless smoothness, and lips were painted into perfect bows of carmine or petal pink.

He passed his time pleasantly enough as an enthralled spectator for perhaps an hour, and was a quarter of the way through the bottle of whiskey when the music paused, and a new set of musicians filed on stage to replace the house band. Mike’s heart skipped a couple of beats when he caught sight of Harvey Specter, who strolled on stage with a lit cigarette dangling from his perfect lips. He wore a dark grey suit, fine leather two-tone wingtip oxfords, and carried his trumpet in one hand, as if it was an extension of himself. Setting the instrument on a stool, he stripped off his jacket and flung it over a chair, revealing suspenders over his white shirt with rolled up sleeves.

Except for the sax player, Harvey was the only white musician in the twelve-piece band. The audience was a mixture of perhaps half black and white. The atmosphere was loose and easy. Everyone was here to listen to hot jazz and have a good time. Mike adored the music, and probably would have made the trip here occasionally in any case, but with Harvey Specter playing, he would happily sit out in the audience every single night of the week to watch him and listen to his skilled playing and incredible improvisations. He was one of those gifted musicians who could play the same song every night, and never have it sound exactly the same.

One night soon, Mike hoped he would be able to summon the courage to approach Harvey, to tell him how much he admired his playing, and perhaps hint at other ways in which he admired him – without, of course, being too explicit. He knew it was foolish to hope that Harvey might share his preference for men, but if there was any chance of it, it might be worth the risk involved in finding out.

The musicians on stage chatted idly with one another, every now and then laughing lowly at some privately shared joke. After warming up on his trumpet, Harvey spent a few minutes jawing with the piano player, an attractive young black man named Alex Williams. Because Mike paid attention to such things, he knew that Alex had arrived in town a few months ago from Chicago and had quickly become one of the most sought-after piano players in New York. From where Mike was sitting, he and Harvey seemed awfully familiar with one another. A slow burn of jealousy began coalescing in Mike’s gut. Was this his competition, then? If so, he didn’t stand a chance. How could a boring bank clerk compare with such a talented, charismatic musician?

He did his best to put these thoughts out of his head. He’d never stood a chance in any case. It was only an idle fantasy. He’d come here to relax and enjoy some excellent music, so he settled in and prepared to do just that.

******

It was amazing how much emotion one instrument could express, how many different moods it could evoke. Harvey Specter was a virtuoso at the top of his game. As the first set progressed, Mike found himself completely caught up in the spell that Harvey and his fellow musicians were weaving. He only remembered his whiskey whenever the pretty waitress passed his table every so often to see if he required a second bottle. He wasn’t prepared to navigate his way home completely snockered, and had been taking small careful sips, but he’d managed to make it through half the bottle already, and his mind was growing agreeably foggy.

The band played for over an hour before taking a break. Harvey announced that Miss Jessica Pearson would be joining them for the next set, “to delight you all with her lovely song stylings.” The audience applauded enthusiastically, the musicians left the stage, and a quiet hum of conversation filled the room, slowly building in volume.

Mike eyed the half full bottle of whiskey on his table. He was just drunk enough to think he might summon the courage to invite someone to the table to help him finish the bottle, and perhaps let himself be talked into something more in one of the dark pools of shadow in the alley out back.

With a jolt of alertness, he noticed Harvey Specter sauntering past his table and toward the bar. Moving fast, so he wouldn’t have time to reconsider his actions, Mike hopped up to intercept him.

“Pardon me,” he said, nerves making him sound slightly out of breath as he caught up to him, “I was wondering … I mean, I really enjoyed your playing and I’d like to offer you a drink.”

Harvey paused, eyeing him up and down. He must have liked what he saw – or was not unduly repulsed – because after a few seconds he gave a terse nod and extended an arm, indicating that Mike should lead the way.

It wasn’t until they were settled across the table from one another that Mike realized he only had one glass. “Oh. Damnation. We’ll need another glass for you,” he said, feeling whatever the opposite of suave was.

Harvey picked up Mike’s empty glass, tilted his head in consideration, and poured a generous portion of whiskey into it before lifting it and sipping deliberately while looking Mike directly in the eye. He handed the glass back to him.

“Or,” said Mike, “yeah. That works.” He drank.

“What’s your name?” Harvey asked.

“Mike.”

“Mike.” He took another sip, placing his lips in the precise spot where Mike’s had just been. “I’m Harvey.”

“I know. I’ve seen you play before. Heard you, I mean. I think you’re incredible. On the trumpet, that is.”

Harvey’s dark eyes sparkled with humor. “I’m incredible at a lot of things.”

Mike believed him. He wracked his brain for a smooth way – a suave way – to follow up on that. _What sorts of incredible things can you do?_

He was still nerving himself to speak when a commotion erupted at the club’s back door. Whistles tweeted shrilly, the word “police” was bellowed, and the patrons of the club shrieked in surprise and alarm. Simultaneous stampedes began toward every available doorway. Mike’s head swiveled this way and that, trying to understand what was happening.

“It’s a raid,” said Harvey, not appearing even mildly concerned. He sounded bored and exasperated. Standing, he, smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt, tossed off the rest of his drink, and then lifted the bottle and clamped it to the side of his body with one arm. “You coming?” he asked. “I know a way out of here.”

Most of the lights went out, plunging the room into near total darkness. The yells and sharp whistle bursts were growing closer. Had Trevor been arrested? His post at the door made him the first person the police would have encountered on the way in.

Harvey held out a hand to Mike. “Well? I don’t know about you, but I have no desire to spend my Friday night locked up in a stinking jail cell. Let’s go.”

Forgetting about Trevor, Mike reached for Harvey’s hand and was pulled to his feet, and then dragged up onto the stage so Harvey could grab his trumpet. It was darker up there than on the main floor, but Harvey seemed to know his way by feel, because he led Mike to the back of the stage and guided him down a short flight of stairs that led to a hallway. They reached a closed door. Without pausing, Harvey released Mike and threw open the door.

“More stairs,” Harvey whispered. “It’s okay. Just follow me.”

“Wait,” said Mike.

“No time for waiting. Trust me. I’ve done this before. Speed is essential. Oh, and close the door behind you.”

It didn’t feel like he had another choice, so Mike closed the door and followed Harvey down the stairs in the dark, keeping one hand on the wall for balance, until they reached what felt like a dirt floor.

“I can’t see a damn thing,” Mike protested, and then walked into Harvey’s broad back. Instinctively, he steadied himself with a hand on each shoulder.

“Hang on a second.”

Mike waited much longer than a second. He threw up a shielding arm as bright light flared. Harvey held a small lantern, lifting it up so that Mike could now see they were in what looked like a large storage room. Wooden crates stacked near the walls held bottles of whiskey, gin and brandy. He turned to Harvey with an incredulous glare.

“You don’t think this is the first place the cops will look? Are you crazy, or just stupid?”

Harvey’s shot him an impatient glance. “We’re only passing through. Although you’re welcome to go back upstairs if you prefer.”

“Passing through how? To where?”

Instead of answering, Harvey began striding with purpose toward the opposite wall. Without any better options, Mike followed. The flame inside the lantern threw shifting shadows across the packed dirt of the floor, the stacked crates of alcohol and the exposed, cobwebbed beams of the low ceiling. They reached another door and Harvey fit a key into the lock, jiggled it, and got it open after a brief struggle.

“After you,” Harvey said, one eyebrow lifted in apparent irony.

"Where does it go?”

“What’s wrong, Mike. Scared?”

He was, a little. More than a little. He couldn’t afford to end up in the hoosegow. He wasn’t about to admit his fear, though, so he squared his shoulders and walked through the door … straight into a puddle of muddy water that soaked his foot to the ankle. At least, he hoped it was mud. The lantern which Harvey held only cast enough light to see a few feet ahead, but what he was looking at appeared to be the beginning of a tunnel which led underneath the streets (or alleys) of the city.

“It’s how the bootleggers make their deliveries,” Harvey explained, his mouth just inches away from Mike’s ear. “Go on. Can’t go back. Might as well go forward.” His words echoed faintly down the tunnel.

Mike acknowledged the truth of Harvey’s words to himself, but couldn’t seem to get his legs to work. He’d never been fond of confined spaces, and the smothering darkness in front of him only amplified his unease. He felt a large, warm hand at his waist, steadying him, and sucked in a slow breath, trying to calm the hammering of his heart.

“Could I –” he began, and cleared his throat. “That is, if you’ll hand me the lantern, so I can see where I’m going …"

Before they could make the exchange, they heard the muffled but unmistakable sounds of many sets of feet pounding down the stairs behind the stage, and then the slam of a door being thrown open and banging into a wall.

“Move,” ordered Harvey, giving Mike a hard shove.

Together, they practically fell into the tunnel. Harvey closed the door behind them with a sound that seemed to boom and echo around them. No way could their pursuers have missed that. Harvey set the lock and then grabbed Mike’s arm, pulling him along at speed.

“That lock won’t hold them for long,” he said. “We need to make tracks.”

Leading now, with the lantern held in front of him, he led Mike down the tunnel at a run. Mike kept up as best he could, stumbling a little over the uneven ground. After a minute or two, Harvey cursed under his breath and picked up the pace, which Mike took to mean that their pursuers had entered the tunnel. Between his own loud, panicked breathing and his pounding heart, he couldn’t hear much of anything, but tension seemed to radiate from Harvey’s body, communicating an urgency that had Mike struggling to match his speed.

A short hallway or alcove filled with empty crates opened to their right. Harvey pushed Mike into it in front of him, stacked several crates into the opening, tucked his trumpet and the bottle of whiskey inside one of them, and extinguished the lantern. Groping in the pitch black, he found Mike, wrapped his arms around him, and bore him to the damp ground. They ended up with Mike on his back and Harvey on top of him, one hand pressed over Mike’s mouth to keep him quiet.

The hand wasn’t necessary. Mike was so scared of discovery that he couldn’t have made a sound even if he’d wanted to. As it was, he barely breathed, and didn’t move so much as an eyelid. Faint lantern light flickered against the walls of the tunnel, growing brighter as the pursuers passed their hiding place. Their curses and shouted orders increased in volume as shadowy forms who appeared to be the police flowed past, never slowing, never noticing the two bodies pressed together down the dead-end turnoff.

The sounds faded, as did the light, until they were in darkness again, a darkness so complete that Mike couldn’t see anything even an inch from his face.

He could feel though.

He felt the lean, muscular lines of Harvey’s body pressed to his, the warmth of his hand covering his mouth, and the hot hardness of Harvey’s cock pressed against his hip. Mike shifted restlessly and Harvey’s hand pushed more firmly against his mouth.

“Don’t move,” Harvey breathed. “They might be back.”

_How long? _Mike might have asked if he was able. He breathed against Harvey’s hand, resisted the strong urge to lick him, and lifted his own hands to rest them on Harvey’s hips. He heard Harvey’s quick intake of breath, and wished he could see his face, to know if it held anger or approval.

They lay like that for a few more minutes, neither one moving. Then, so quietly that even Mike, who was only inches away, could barely hear, Harvey whispered, “I’m going to remove my hand. Don’t make a sound.”

He seemed to be waiting for a response, so Mike nodded his head. The hand lifted from his mouth. An instant later, it was replaced by Harvey’s soft lips. Mike made a surprised noise in the back of his throat, which swiftly turned into a groan. Remembering Harvey’s warning to be quiet, he quickly bit off the sound. Tightening his arms around Harvey’s back, he parted his lips, accepting his tongue, happily giving himself over to this unexpected development.

Harvey was an excellent kisser. Maybe it was all that practice with his trumpet which had limbered up lips and tongue. He tasted like the Canadian whiskey they’d shared earlier. Mike would have happily spent hours getting drunk on that taste.

Too soon, Harvey lifted his head. He stroked his thumb across Mike’s lower lip and let out a soft laugh, barely audible, which Mike felt more than heard.

“What?” he whispered.

“Nothing,” Harvey whispered back. “It’s just … God, you taste so sweet. I knew you would, the moment I set eyes on you.”

“I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you up on the stage.” Mike was grateful for the dark, which hid his bashful blush.

Harvey shifted slightly so that he was only half-lying on Mike. He kept one hand on his neck, and one leg resting between Mike’s. “So, who are you, Mike? That is, when you’re not skulking in speakeasies and running from the coppers.”

Mike choked back a laugh. “Skulking?”

“Oh, I saw you over there in the shadows, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.”

Mike sucked in a breath, prepared to argue, but then chuckled instead. “Yeah, well, I can’t dance, and I don’t play a musical instrument. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Grab life by the balls and don’t let go.” Harvey punctuated his advice by sliding a hand between Mike’s legs and cupping his balls.

Mike let out an embarrassing squeak, but couldn’t stop himself from thrusting up into Harvey’s palm.

With a satisfied hum, Harvey leaned in to place soft kisses on Mike’s neck. “So sweet,” he groaned, nipping Mike’s earlobe. “Like honeycomb and marzipan dripping with maple syrup.”

Mike laughed breathlessly. “Sounds revolting.”

“No. It’s delicious. You’re delicious.” He mouthed Mike’s neck, and then pushed his collar aside and bit down on his shoulder.

“We, uh.” Mike squirmed beneath him. “Shouldn’t we get out of here? I mean, do you suppose it’s safe to leave?”

Harvey left off torturing him and rested his forehead against Mike’s shoulder. “We should wait a few more minutes.”

“Okay.” It did seem a shame to have to get up. Mike was comfortable just the way they were, never mind that he was likely lying in filth, and would have to burn his clothes when he got home. He said as much to Harvey.

Harvey sat up. “Come back to my hotel room with me. We can send out your clothes to be cleaned. The staff at the St. Regis is very efficient.”

“The St. Regis? Swanky. I don’t know, though. That could take a while.”

“I’m sure we can find pleasurable ways to pass the time while we wait. So, will you?”

Even though they were no longer touching, Mike imagined that Harvey could hear the way his heart accelerated at the offer, booming like a bass drum inside his chest. “I’m not …" he whispered, wincing in the dark. “I mean, I am, I want to, but I’ve never really …" He swallowed hard and forced himself to get the words out. “What I’m trying to say is, if you’re offering to share your bed, I’d like that, but my experience is somewhat limited.”

A few seconds of silence from Harvey. “Understood. The offer stands.”

Mike could hear him lean away and then back again, and wondered what he was doing. A moment later, he heard a soft sloshing noise, just before the whiskey bottle was thrust into his hand. Grateful for the liquid courage, he took a long drink, feeling the alcohol slide hotly down his throat and warm his insides.

Was he really going to do this? Apparently, he was, because he heard himself say, “Okay. Yes. Offer accepted.” He passed the bottle back to Harvey.

“Good. Now, you never did answer my question. Tell me about yourself. Who are you? How do you spend your days when you’re not fleeing from the law?”

“To be fair, I only do that Friday nights and every other Wednesday.”

“Mike ...”

He steeled himself. This was almost as humiliating as admitting that he was a near virgin. He was tempted to make up something more interesting, but he sighed ruefully and admitted, “I’m a bank clerk. Pretty dull, right?”

“Everyone has to earn a living.”

“It wasn’t my first choice, but life just sort of works out that way sometimes.”

“Are you good at it?”

“Being a bank clerk?” Mike considered the question more seriously than it had likely been intended. “I’m excellent with sums and numbers but Mr. Litt – the manager – does not believe I represent the bank’s, er, brand as well as I might. In fact, there’s a strong possibility that when I arrive on Monday, I’ll be let go.”

“This Mr. Litt sounds like a real wet blanket.”

“Oh, he is. The wettest. The funny thing is, I don’t even care all that much about losing my position. There’s always another deadly dull job right around the corner.”

“Hm,” was all Harvey said.

Mike lost track of time as they sat together in the side tunnel, sharing the whiskey back and forth until the bottle was empty. The darkness and the silence (except for their breathing and the whisper of cloth as one or the other of them shifted minutely) were so complete that Mike became extra aware of the heat rising off Harvey. Made giddy from drink, he yearned to feel Harvey’s lips on his again, but lacked the courage to ask for what he wanted. More time passed. He’d begun to drowse, leaning back against the wall and allowing his mind to drift, when Harvey spoke again.

“Ready?” he asked.

“If you think the coast is clear.”

Harvey struck a match and relit the lantern, retrieved his trumpet from its hiding place and rose to his feet. “Fifteen minutes and we’ll be at the St. Regis.”

“Not if we walk.”

“Oh, I don’t intend to walk all that way.”

Mike was too tired – and tipsy – to care what Harvey meant. He followed him down the tunnel. They saw plenty of signs that the police had been through there ahead of them, but they were long gone by now. After perhaps five minutes, they ascended a flight of stairs and exited cautiously into an alley well away from the _Willow Wisp._ Two more minutes brought them to another alley. Mike balked when he saw what was awaiting them there.

“It’s a Chrysler Imperial Roadster,” proclaimed Harvey with more than a little pride in his voice. “This year’s model.” He placed a hand on the glossy burgundy body of the car, stroking the sides as he favored it with a tender gaze. “Ain’t she a beauty?”

******

Mike made it to the St. Regis Hotel without vomiting all over the buttery cream-colored leather upholstery of Harvey’s roadster, but it was a near thing.

He wished he could have enjoyed himself as they tore through the streets of Manhattan at speeds of well over of thirty miles per hour, but his mind kept returning to a night thirteen years ago when his father had brought home his pride and joy, a brand new Ford Model T, and had taken his wife out for a spin through the rainy streets of Brooklyn. They’d made it a scant mile from their brownstone before they’d lost control and slammed into the side of a building. Both had died inside the crumpled frame of the car.

“On the open road,” Harvey was saying, “this beauty is supposed to be capable of hitting speeds of eighty miles an hour. Someday soon I’ll get the chance to test it.” He shot a look at Mike. “Maybe you’ll join me for that.”

When Mike didn’t reply, Harvey peered curiously at him.

“You should keep your eyes on the road,” Mike got out through a tight jaw.

“Say, are you all right?”

“Never better.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

They careened around a corner at what felt like excessive speeds. Mike clamped his eyes shut and bit his lip hard.

“You look positively green,” Harvey noted.

“Are we almost there?”

“Nearly. I could put the top down. That might help with the queasiness.”

“Just keep going. I’ll be all right.” He didn’t add that he’d be all right just as soon as they reached the hotel and the infernal contraption stopped moving.

******

Mike couldn’t help gaping in awe at Harvey’s exquisitely appointed room at the St. Regis. The wallpaper was pale yellow silk, contrasting with heavy royal blue velvet brocade curtains. Much of the furniture looked spindly and refined enough to be in a palace. A huge bed with a rolled mahogany headboard and footboard drew Mike’s gaze. The plush mattress was so high off the ground that it required steps to reach it.

Nervously, he averted his gaze from the bed to study the rest his surroundings. Lovely watercolor landscapes hung on the walls. Through the windows, he could see across the tops of other buildings all the way to the verdant vegetation of Central Park, lit up by the streetlamps along its paths.

“You’ll want to bathe,” said Harvey. “The bath has hot and cold running water. Take off your clothes and go have a soak. I’ll arrange to get your things cleaned.”

“Do you live here?” Mike asked incredulously.

Harvey shrugged. “When I’m in New York. Most of the time I’m out on the road. The band and I tour forty-eight weeks a year.”

“Jesus. What kind of life is that?”

“The only kind worth living.” Harvey arched one eyebrow. A half-smile played over his beautiful mouth.

Mike blushed as he remembered the feel of that mouth pressed to his, and the whiskey taste of it.

With an amused shake of his head, Harvey disappeared into the bathroom, and a few seconds later Mike heard the sound of running water. Harvey reappeared.

“If you insist on being modest, close the door. You really must get that stink off you, however. If you want to rescue those duds, the sooner the staff gets hold of them, the better chance they’ll have of restoring them to their former condition.”

Mike nodded absently. “What about you?”

“Oh, I intend to bathe as well. Guests go first.” He grinned at Mike. “Or we could share. Unless you’re scared?”

Mike was growing fed up with Harvey’s aspersions and assumptions. He wasn’t scared, nor was he particularly modest. He went into the bathroom and left the door open as he stripped off his filthy clothes. “You’re welcome to share if you like,” he said, striving to sound indifferent. “However, the bath doesn’t look big enough to hold both of us at once.”

He dipped a hand into the half-filled tub, testing the temperature and finding it agreeably warm. Easing himself into the water, he let out a sigh of pleasure. Creamy scented soap and a fresh washcloth had been laid on the edge of the tub. He reached for the washcloth, only to have it snatched from his grasp. Looking up in surprise, he found Harvey, down to trousers and undershirt, standing over him with a wicked smile on his face.

“What are you doing?” asked Mike. He knew exactly what Harvey was doing, and his heart began to beat like a triphammer with building excitement.

Harvey stripped off his undershirt, tossing it behind him, and then unbuckled his belt, unzipped, and let his trousers fall to the floor. He stepped out of them, now wearing nothing but his thin cotton shorts. He knelt next to the tub and dipped the washcloth into the water. “All part of the service,” he murmured. “Just relax.”

Using the bar of soap, he lathered up the washcloth. Mike watched in fascination as he touched the cloth to Mike’s shoulder and dragged it slowly down his chest. Mike held his breath as the cloth descended almost to his crotch, only to have Harvey lift it up, and start another downward path a few inches over from the first. It felt nice to be fussed over like this. No one had ever done this for Mike before, unless you counted his mother, who must have bathed him as a child, although he had no clear recollection of that. This was no motherly touch that Harvey was employing.

When Harvey was done with Mike’s chest, he had him sit forward so he could soap up his back. “How’s that feel?” he asked.

Mike had his eyes closed by then. He mumbled a response, something like, “Mm hmm.”

“Okay. Lie back. Now I’m going to wash your legs. No. Stay relaxed. Let me do all the work.”

Remaining relaxed was easier said than done, but Mike did his best to remain boneless beneath Harvey’s attentions. One leg was carefully lifted from the water, given a thorough wash, and replaced. Then, the other leg received the same treatment.

“Keep your eyes closed.”

That was all the warning Mike got before water splashed over his head, wetting his hair. With cupped hands, Harvey doused him several more times. Next, he used the soap to create a thick lather on his palms before smoothing his hands over Mikes head. His fingers dug lightly into Mike’s scalp, massaging and distributing the lather. Harvey’s fingertips worked him in a regular rhythm, which had an almost hypnotic effect. Mike let out a long groan, and immediately blushed as he realized how he must have sounded.

Harvey chuckled. “Nothing more satisfying than a happy customer. I’m going to rinse you now.” Using his cupped hand once more, Harvey sluiced water over his head again and again. When he had washed all the soap from Mike’s hair, he murmured, “Open your legs for me.”

Mike’s eyes snapped open to see Harvey with washcloth in hand, staring down at him. He held his hand out to Harvey. “I’ll take that. I can finish on my own.”

“And you could have gone home to your cold, empty apartment, but you came here, with me, and I’m offering to do this for you.”

Harvey paused, waiting for a reply, but all of Mike’s words seemed to have stuck in his throat.

“Mike. Let me.” He said this so softly, with such sincerity, that Mike couldn’t have refused him even if he’d wanted to.

He didn’t want to.

Breath shuddered in and out of Mike. He nodded shakily and grasped the sides of the tub, letting his legs fall apart. Seconds later, he bucked up as Harvey enveloped his cock with the slick, soapy washcloth. “_God,” _he groaned. It wasn’t the first time a man had held him in his hand, but always before it had been rough and quick and furtive, in a dark alley or the back room of a speakeasy. Those encounters had only hinted at what was possible, at something more. This felt like the fulfillment of that promise – or the beginnings of fulfillment, since Harvey stopped all too soon, withdrawing his touch.

“No,” Mike gasped, one hand darting forward to capture Harvey’s wrist. “I’m close. Please.”

Harvey shook his head, curving his mouth into a wicked grin. “The begging is nice, but not necessary.”

Although Mike tugged at his wrist, Harvey proved to be too strong for him.

“No,” said Harvey, not sounding the least bit regretful. “I want our first time to last longer than that.”

Mike blinked up at him, trying to understand what he was saying. _Our first time._ Mike had never had a second or third time with anybody. First times had always been last times as well.

Harvey tossed the washcloth into the sink and extended a hand to Mike. “Let’s get you dried off.”

Mike allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. He stepped out of the tub and reached for the towel, but Harvey beat him to it, and arched an eyebrow until Mike gave in and stood passively while Harvey carefully, tenderly, toweled him dry. When he was finished, he gave Mike a gentle shove in the direction of the bedroom.

“Wait for me in bed. I’ll be there soon.”

Mike climbed the steps onto the bed and sank into the mattress, which felt soft as a cloud. The late hour, the whiskey, fear followed by relief, the warm bath, and Harvey’s touch had all worked together to make Mike sleepy and relaxed. With eyes closed, he listened to Harvey splash around in the bathtub. Another time, he might have returned to Harvey the attentions he’d bestowed upon him, but he was too weary, and his limbs felt incapable of movement.

He was too tired even to feel nervous or scared about what might come next, what Harvey might expect of him. If he was ever going to be ready to go further than he had in the past, this was the time, and Harvey was definitely the one he’d prefer to initiate him into whatever mysteries were possible between two men. He lay on the bed, listening, drowsing, and occasionally dragging his eyes back open when he teetered perilously close to the edge of sleep.

Finally, Harvey appeared in the doorway, gloriously naked, his hair damp and free of the pomade which had held it in place earlier. Mike shifted from his side onto his back and sat up, watching Harvey stalk towards him with a possessive, predatory gleam in his dark eyes.

“You look …” said Mike. He gulped. “That is to say, I would like to reiterate, if I may, if I wasn’t sufficiently clear earlier, that I have not yet participated, er, fully, in what I can only assume you intend – ”

By then, Harvey had stretched out next to him, damp, naked and smiling. He set one finger against Mike’s mouth, halting his spill of words. “You can still change your mind.” He laid his other hand on Mike’s hip and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “Is this where you want to be?” he murmured.

Mike couldn’t have spoken right then if he’d wanted to. All he could manage was a faint, “_Ahh,_” as Harvey’s lips traveled to his collarbone, and from there to his nipple.

Now, _that_ was new. He lay perfectly still, gaze locked on the ceiling, every speck of awareness focused on the gentle nip of teeth, and the tiny wet licks that brought the sensitive nub to aching hardness. It was … _good._ How could that one tiny spot be the source of such delicious pleasure? How had he reached the age of twenty-four years without knowing that?

Desperate for more, he arched up, flushing hotly at the sound of Harvey’s low chuckle. He kissed across Mike’s chest to the other nipple and attended to it as thoroughly as he had the first. By the time he lifted his head, Mike was writhing beneath him and biting his lip in a pointless effort to contain his growing excitement.

“So responsive,” Harvey whispered approvingly. He flicked Mike’s damp nipple with his fingernail and smiled when Mike jerked and let out a gasp. “That bodes well.” He grew serious as he regarded Mike. “Do you know what comes next?”

“I think so. In theory. I found some pornography in one of the shops on Canal Street. It was both instructional and confusing. Not to mention highly stimulating.”

Harvey seemed to find his response amusing. “You’re not like any man I’ve been with before.”

This comment punctured Mike’s excitement somewhat. His brow wrinkled. “Are you finding me a disappointment?”

“No, sweetheart. No.”

Harvey kissed him, slow and sweet, until Mike was breathless with want.

“Turn over for me, darling,” Harvey urged.

Mike flipped onto his stomach, and Harvey pushed a pillow underneath his hips. “All you need to do for the next few minutes is relax and grow accustomed to my touch. If anything alarms you, or causes more pain than you can handle, I want you to tell me at once.”

More pain than he could handle? This seemed to imply that there would be some pain, which he had already deduced based upon the exploratory expeditions he’d undertaken with his own fingers. There were fingers, though, and … he gulped as he glanced over his shoulder at Harvey’s hard, jutting prick.

Yes, this would certainly be an adventure like none he’d ever had.

He was determined to endure it all as stoically as possible, but still jumped a little when Harvey’s hand cupped his rump.

“It’s all right,” Harvey murmured. “I’m going to use a bit of oil to ease the way. There’s no rush. We’ll take it as slowly as we need to.”

A slick finger probed at his most intimate place, stroking him ever so gently, seeking entrance. After the mention of pain, this felt surprisingly good, even when the fingertip pushed inside him, thrusting in and out in small movements that had Mike breathing quickly and grinding down into the mattress.

Mike appreciated the care Harvey was taking, but he soon craved more. “Why,” he panted, “do we need to take it slowly?”

Harvey paused, and Mike could feel his tension in the hand on his bottom and the finger which was now knuckle-deep inside of him. “Because otherwise it can be a damned unpleasant experience,” he said gruffly.

“Oh.”

The finger began moving once again as Mike considered this.

“Did … that is, was somebody not careful with you?”

Harvey gave a low, noncommittal grunt which somehow communicated the old hurt that he’d endured.

“How old were you?” Mike asked.

Harvey’s finger stopped moving. “Is this really the conversation you want to be having right now?” He didn’t sound angry. He sounded perplexed.

“I …” The truth was, he did want that conversation, because he wanted more than a tumble in bed with Harvey. He wanted to know more about him, to know everything that made him the man he was. Harvey was right, though. This wasn’t the time for it. He thought about saying so out loud, but moments later he became incapable of coherent thought or speech when the pressure inside him increased as Harvey thrust two fingers deep inside him and made contact with a place that caused Mike to yelp and spew out a string of curse words he’d barely even realized he knew.

Harvey’s fingers fucked in and out of him, patient and sure and knowledgeable. Mike rose to his hands and knees and rocked back into the touch, panting hard. His breaths seemed to rush through his head like a locomotive, louder and louder, picking up speed. He felt as if he could almost, almost take flight.

Too soon, the fingers withdrew. He whined his displeasure. Seconds later, the head of Harvey’s cock pressed against his entrance. Mike sucked in a breath and held it, waiting for the inevitable pain.

The pain came. _Pressure. Burning._ Mike’s jaw tightened and he grunted.

“Mike?”

He hesitated and then nodded, although he might as easily have shaken his head in negation and demanded an end to this intrusion.

Harvey held where he was and stroked Mike’s back, as if gentling a skittish horse. “Relax,” he soothed, although his voice sounded strained. “Relax and accept me. Nod when you think you can continue.”

One moment, Mike was convinced this had been a mistake, that it would be impossible to take Harvey fully inside him. In the next instant, his resistance melted away as if it had never existed, and his body adjusted to allow Harvey entry. He pushed back, and Harvey sank all the way inside, his groin snugging up against Mike’s backside. They both let out sounds of raw pleasure. Mike’s included a note of surprise, but Harvey’s was all possessive triumph.

Even so, he remained immobile until Mike looked over his shoulder and wriggled his hips, signaling his impatience. Things moved quickly after that. Harvey’s fingers dug into his hips and he began a strong, rhythmic plunge, gathering speed until the bedsprings began to creak beneath them. Mike sought purchase where he could find it, gathering up handfuls of the bedspread to clutch in his fists. Harvey drove into him, and it didn’t hurt, precisely, but it was nowhere near as enjoyable as his fingers had been.

Then Harvey knelt up, pulling Mike back onto his cock, and thrust up at a new angle which scraped along that place inside Mike that caused his vision to sparkle at the edges, and made him want to howl at the summer moon in unrestrained joy.

They moved together in perfect rhythm, taking and giving pleasure, sharing it back and forth, raising the stakes with each exchange. Mike wanted this to last an eternity, to remain impaled on Harvey’s cock until he expelled his last breath. He felt Harvey’s hand on his cock, stroking him as he continued to fuck Mike. His spine tingled a warning and then he was exploding, shouting unintelligibly, his bones melting inside him.

He collapsed onto the mattress. The bed continued to rock and shake as Harvey slammed into him for several more minutes. Arms snaked around his middle, squeezing the air from his lungs, and Harvey gave a series of heartfelt, groaning curses in his ear as he came hotly inside Mike, filling him up. Finally, he sank on top of Mike, still holding him tight, weighing him down until he caught his breath enough to shift halfway off Mike and pull out of him. His warm spend dribbled from Mike’s hole and slid down his inner thighs.

Mike was treated to a tender barrage of kisses on the back of his neck, and soft sweet murmurs against his ear. It took some maneuvering, but he managed to turn himself in Harvey’s embrace until he faced him. He placed a hand on Harvey’s neck and drew him down for a slow, wet kiss.

“Mmm,” said Harvey after a time. “So sweet. So fucking sweet.”

By then, Mike could barely keep his eyes open. Even as he succumbed to the seduction of sleep, he was aware that no matter if he ever saw him again or not, for as long as he lived, he’d never forget this night with Harvey.

******

Sunlight slanted through a narrow gap in the blue velvet drapes and struck Mike directly on his closed eyelids. He groaned and threw up a hand to ward off the too bright light. He knew immediately where he was – in Harvey Specter’s hotel bed. The unfamiliar ache in his posterior would have recalled the events of last night to him, if they weren’t already so firmly set in his mind.

He managed to pry one eyelid open, confirming what he already knew. The room was as beautiful as he remembered, the bed as soft. The only thing different was the absence of Harvey. This shouldn’t have surprised him. It didn’t surprise him. It did, however, produce a pang of disappointment, startling in its intensity.

He sighed gustily. Harvey was a musician. A _jazz_ musician. By his own admission, he was on the road forty-eight weeks out of the year. He likely encountered more than his share of willing partners at every show he played. Mike was merely another conquest in an unending string of them. As he struggled to accept this, his gaze fell upon a folded sheet of paper on the pillow next to his. He snatched it up and read the strong, elegant writing.

_“I’ve ordered breakfast. I hope you’ll stay as long as you like.”_

Did that mean that Harvey would be back to eat with him? Or was this his way of dismissing Mike? _Thanks for the sex, now scram._

He climbed out of the bed and went to the bathroom to relieve himself. He washed and dried his hands. Someone knocked on the door. Assuming it was room service with his breakfast, he snatched up a robe that smelled faintly of Harvey, slid it on and tied it around his waist. When he opened the door, he found himself face to face with Alex Williams, the piano player from Harvey’s band.

If he was surprised to see Mike, he hid it well, brushing past him into the room. His gaze settled on the unmade bed and his mouth twitched. “Where’s Harvey?”

Mike opened his mouth to say that he had no idea, but at that moment Harvey himself strode through the door. He pulled up short when he saw Mike and Alex facing off across the bed. “Alex. You’re up early. Glad to see you made it out all right.”

“Where have you been?”

Harvey tapped his breast pocket. “I went to see Travis, to make sure we got paid.”

“Did the police arrest a lot of people?” asked Mike, thinking about Trevor.

Their breakfast arrived before Harvey could answer. The three of them waited as a cart was wheeled in and the food and coffee was transferred to a table. Harvey tipped the employee, who left, taking the cart with him.

“Who’s hungry?” asked Harvey. Neither Mike or Alex replied. “I sure as hell am.” He took a seat at the table. After eyeing one another with something like suspicion, Mike and Alex joined him.

They all poured coffee, buttered their biscuits, and dug into the steak and eggs with gusto. For a few minutes, the only sounds in the room were the clink of silver on china, the polite slurp of coffee, and energetic chewing. While he ate, Mike wondered some more about Trevor. He also wondered about Alex, and his relationship with Harvey. Despite their current silence, they seemed exceptionally easy with one another. On the other hand, the curious looks Alex had shot Mike did not appear to contain any jealousy.

He waited until Harvey had polished off his meal, wiped his napkin across his mouth, thrown it onto the table, and lit a cigarette, before he posed the same question as he had earlier.

“Were there many arrests?”

Harvey shrugged and blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. “Not of anybody that mattered.”

Did Trevor matter? Probably not, according to Harvey.

“The band all got out okay,” Alex put in.

“Even if they hadn’t,” said Harvey, “Travis would have posted their bail. It’s in our contract.”

Mike bit his lip, considering. “I heard that Travis Tanner and his club were immune from police raids.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear. You’re right in this instance, though. He pays the police handsomely to look the other way. That raid never would have occurred if a new player in New York hadn’t paid double the amount of Tanner’s bribes in order to spread a bit of mischief and mayhem at the _Wisp_. I doubt anyone rounded up last night is still in jail this morning.”

“Then what was the point?” asked Mike.

“To create a climate of fear, and cause people to think twice before returning to the _Wisp. _If last night’s demonstration doesn’t give the opposition the results they want, things could escalate.”

Alex made a low sound of distress. When Mike glanced his way, he saw that he had a worried look on his face. “I don’t like this, Harvey. I left Chicago to get away from gangsters and their constant turf wars, and now the problem seems to have followed me here.”

“Don’t worry about it, Alex. We won’t be around long enough to get caught in the line of fire. We’re starting the new tour a couple of weeks early. Travis understands. He’s not even making us finish out our scheduled dates at the _Wisp_. He estimates it will only take a month or two to resolve the situation with Forstman, and then we can return.”

“You think so? Capone and Moran have been at it for years. Between the tommy guns and the dynamite, the streets there have been dripping in blood for too long.”

Mike swallowed hard at the image. Having lost his appetite for the juicy red steak, he set down his knife and fork and gave Harvey a troubled look. “Could that happen here?” He’d read plenty of lurid stories in the Herald about the violence raging in Chicago

For the first time since Harvey had returned to the room, he looked at Mike with an echo of the warmth he’d shown last night. “You don’t need to worry either, Mike.”

That sounded like a dismissal. Harvey was leaving the city and leaving Mike with nothing more than empty assurances. “Sure thing,” he said, doing his best to hide the hurt he felt, because it was beyond ridiculous to feel that way. Lasting relationships were impossible for men like him. The only difference between his encounter with Harvey and all the rest of the nameless men was a comfortable bed and significantly better manners.

Harvey stared at him a moment longer, and then turned to Alex. “Can you let the rest of the band know that we’ll be catching the train first thing in the morning?” He reached into his pocket, retrieving a fat wad of cash. He peeled off several bills and handed the rest to Alex. “Divide that up. The usual percentages. We’ll meet in the lobby at seven.”

Alex accepted the money, sketched a casual salute, gave Mike one more curious look, and left the room. Mike waited for Harvey to say something more, waited for him to usher Mike out the door, but he’d fallen silent, and was apparently deep in thought.

Mike sighed. “I don’t suppose my clothes have made a reappearance yet?”

Stirring, Harvey gave him a blank look and blinked several times, dragging his attention back to Mike. “Check the closet,” he said.

Mike did so, and found his clothes hanging neatly, restored to their former state. He dropped the robe to the floor and got dressed, taking his time in order to postpone the moment when he took his leave of Harvey. He knew that, realistically, they’d likely never see one another again. He tried not to let his melancholy at that thought show on his face.

Fully dressed, he turned around to discover Harvey watching him. “You don’t have to go,” Harvey said.

Mike’s heart lifted for half a second, only to plunge into misery once more. Was Harvey suggesting he stay another night with him? The offer was tempting, but he was already finding it painful to take his leave. After another twenty-four hours, how much more painful would it be?

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” he said.

Harvey tilted his head to one side, as if trying to get a better look at Mike. “Is returning to the bank a good idea? Is spending your days in a job you despise a good idea?”

Mike smiled ruefully. “It’s the expected thing. The normal thing. It’s the thing that allows me to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly.”

“There’s more to life than basic survival.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Because I make music for a living?”

“Well, yes. And it’s obviously not just something you do to earn a living. There’s something transcendent about the way you blow your horn.”

“Transcendent?” Harvey’s crooked smile made him even more attractive, if that was possible.

“Yes. Don’t laugh at me. What people like you do allows people like me to forget, if only for a few hours, how dreary our lives are. You perform a valuable service.”

“To be clear, are you talking about the music, or …”

Mike gave an exasperated huff, although he couldn’t help but be amused by Harvey’s hubris. “I can attest that anything you blow is the better for it.” He blushed hotly at his own words.

Harvey tilted his head in the other direction and did not speak for a full minute as he gazed at Mike. His eyes sparkled with intelligence and humor and something that looked like calculation. “Come with us,” he finally said.

“What?” Mike wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly.

“Come on the road with the band. Quit your job. Walk away and don’t look back.”

Certain that he’d misheard him, Mike repeated, “What?”

“Which words did you not understand?”

Mike’s short laugh was disbelieving. “Oh, I understood, all right. Are you suggesting that I travel with you as your … I don’t even know what to call it. Your companion? Your lover? Your whore?”

“All of the above, if that’s what you want. But you misunderstand me, which is entirely my fault. I should have made myself clearer. I meant I would like you to come along in a professional capacity. You said you’re good with sums and numbers. The band needs someone to handle our financial concerns on the road, to keep track of bills and payments, to arrange for our lodging, and perhaps make sure everyone makes it to our performances on time. Do you think you can handle all of that?”

Did he? More importantly (since, of course he could handle it), did he want to? He thought about the job at the bank that may or not be his come Monday, and weighed that against traveling with Harvey, watching him play his trumpet every night, and (presumably) sharing his bed. As it turned out, it was no contest.

“We’d have to discuss my salary,” he hedged.

Harvey rose from the table and moved to stand in front of Mike. “I’ll double whatever the bank is paying you. Transportation, meals and lodging will all be paid by the band. You’ll also have free entry to any of our shows you wish to attend.” He gave Mike a moment to absorb what he’d said, and then added, “And of course, any night you wish to spend in my bed, you are more than welcome.”

Mike frowned. “What about … that is to say …”

“Out with it.”

“It’s just, I’m assuming I wouldn’t be the only one.”

Harvey’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I normally prefer my men one at a time, but I’d consider indulging you, if that’s what you want.” His half-grin told Mike he was joking. Mostly joking.

“Funny,” said Mike. “I’m serious, though. I thoroughly enjoyed last night, and I have no objection to a return engagement, but I’m not going to be just one of your string of conquests.”

“My string of – Mike, we’ve known each other all of …” He glanced at his pocket watch. “All of twelve hours. Which is why I’m going to let that comment pass. Whatever you seem to think, I’m not some feckless Lothario, cutting a swathe through New England and the upper Midwest. I like you. Last night meant something to me. I want you on tour because I’m hoping for a repeat, but that’s not the only reason. This is not some made up position I’m offering you. The entire band would have my balls for breakfast if I tried something like that.”

He grasped Mike’s arms. “I’m offering you a new job and a bit of adventure. If you’re amenable to more than that – ”

Mike stopped his words with his mouth. The kiss was soft, but not tentative. Harvey’s arms wrapped around him, his tongue invaded his mouth, and if Mike was capable of thought at all, he was thinking that he could have this every night and every morning for the next forty-eight weeks. The whiskey taste was gone from Harvey’s lips, but Mike’s senses swam all the same.

He pulled back, swaying drunkenly and holding onto Harvey to maintain his balance.

“Yes,” he rasped. “Yes, to everything.”

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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